My Doctor
by Nymphadora-CullenBAU
Summary: "Can you save him before I pull the trigger? -JM" Moriarty returns and threatens someone close to Sherlock, prompting him to come out of hiding for one final showdown. But will he walk away with his heart intact?


_**Okay so this is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom. Please be nice.**_

_**I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock belongs to BBC, Moffat and Gatiss**_

...

_Oh Sherlock! You thought you could get away, didn't you. But you were wrong. So WRONG! And now I have your little doctor friend... Can you save him before I pull the trigger? -JM_

Sherlock felt his stomach drop to the floor and his body became ice. But it was impossible. Moriarty was dead. Sherlock had seen it himself, right before he'd jumped...

But this text, on the phone Mycroft had arranged for Sherlock to have while in hiding, was just Moriarty's style. It all made sense. Jim had found his number. It wouldn't have been that hard. It would only take Lestrade leaving the papers out for a moment, or for someone to glance at Mycroft's phone contacts.

And the truth was, hurting John was just one of the only ways to hurt Sherlock.

Sherlock closed his messages and hit 2 on his speed dial. "Mycroft, it's me," he barked. "There's something very important I need you to do..."

….

He stood in a large warehouse, straining into the darkness. With help from Mycroft and Lestrade, Sherlock had traced the text to an unregistered number Of course Jim would use a disposable phone. No sooner had the information been retrieved than Sherlock's phone rang again.

_8:00. Canary Wharf Warehouse B. Come alone or the Doctor gets it. –JM_

Despite his protests, Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard was outside the warehouse in unmarked cars. Sherlock was armed and had a microphone at his throat. If he spoke the signal word ("Doctor"), Lestrade and his men would, in theory, force their way into the warehouse and capture or kill Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock was startled from his thought by the sound of a door slamming shut. He looked up to find Moriarty, just as he had looked the day Sherlock had seen him die, still wearing a tailored suit and polished shoes.

"I thought you would come!" Moriarty crowed. "John was so adamant that you wouldn't, on account that he believed you were dead and all. I tried to tell him otherwise, but that stubborn fool..." He shrugged, smirking. "It will be nice to see the old team back together."

"Where is he, Moriarty?" Sherlock spat, moving slowly toward his old nemesis.

Moriarty laughed hysterically. "He'll be fine, apart from some bumps and bruises. He got combative, so I had to do so in return."

"You didn't -" Sherlock hissed.

"I did! Amazing what some goons and a couple thousand pounds will do for you." Jim slowly pulled a gun from his pocket. "I think you'll like the way your doctor looks."

Sherlock pulled his gun and Moriarty looked surprised.

"You know how this will end, little Sherlock," Moriarty cooed. "I will force you to drop the gun only to escape and continue my life as a consulting villain. But you..." Moriarty sneered. "You will fall on this warehouse floor. Your blood will pour from your head. And no one will be able to bring you back again."

"How did you come back?" Sherlock whispered.

"It was a look-alike," Moriarty cried in a sing-song voice. Sherlock lowered his gun. "I convinced him that it was an acting role for a TV movie. I promised him thousands of dollars to come and play for you. I fed him the words through a microphone and told him to put a toy pistol in his mouth. Then a sniper took him out." He giggled in pure joy at his plan. "I almost felt bad for poor Sebastian."

Sherlock shook his head. "How dare you," he growled, raising the gun once again. Hatred burned in his electric blue eyes as he aimed at Moriarty's blackened heart.

Moriarty tilted his head and smiled. "And now we're back to the beginning. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love a good circle as much as anyone, but we are _**always**_ running in circles, Sherlock: You chase me, and I chase you; you hide, and I hide. It's time to end the game, Sherlock. Recess is over."

Moriarty cocked his gun toward Sherlock.

A gunshot blast filled the warehouse. Moriarty stared at Sherlock for a moment before blood dripped from the hole in his head. And then, the criminal mastermind fell to the ground. Behind him stood Mycroft, the smoking gun still in his hands.

"I took care of the goons but couldn't find him, Sherlock." Mycroft reported.

"I don't need your help, Mycroft!" Sherlock ordered.

"I will not chance losing you again!" Mycroft demanded, his face turning red. "If you hadn't come to me afterward, I would have assumed it to be true. You're the only family I have left, brother."

Sherlock glared at his brother without speaking.

Finally, something snapped inside him and Sherlock nodded once before making his way to the corpse. Without speaking, Sherlock leaned over Moriarty's body and examined it. Finally he looked up at Mycroft, his eyes shining.

"There are drops of moisture on his jacket. I would think they were once ice particles. Melting now, but they were there for a while, at least a few hours."

"Are you saying he was in a freezer?"

"I'm saying John is." Sherlock hissed, pulling his phone from his jacket. "Lestrade, get in here. Moriarty's dead. Mycroft shot him. I need you to secure the scene while I look for John."

….

The bodies of three goons were in a back room office and a walk-in freezer sat closed just around the corner. No wonder Mycroft had missed it, Sherlock thought. He found a bolt-cutters and ripped the lock off the door before pushing it open.

On the ground, apparently unconscious, lay John Watson. A film of frost covered his face and hands and a pair of silver handcuffs kept him restrained to a metal shelf in the back of the freezer.

"Oh John..." Sherlock whispered. It had been so long since he'd seen his friend.

Underneath the frost were stark bruises, each a violent purple color. Blood dripped from a clearly broken nose and there was a bloody hole in John's lower lip where he'd bitten through. Three of the fingers on his right hand were broken and shallow, bloody cuts littered his wrists.

His pale face and drawn features, coupled with the ice and his current position, only made the bruises look far worse than they actually were.

Sherlock kneeled by his friend, taking John's undamaged hand in his own. The doctor stirred at the touch and his eyes opened halfway.

Sherlock was at a loss for words. Instead, he gently held John's hand within both of his own, a sign of comfort he had never genuinely given before.

"Sher-lock?" John whispered.

"I'm here, John." Sherlock replied, fighting a losing battle with the tears that gathered in his eyes. "I'm here."

….

_A/N: Please review! …Please?_

_*~N_CBAU~*_


End file.
